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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24516016">Across the line</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyhexian/pseuds/Polyhexian'>Polyhexian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drugs, Gen, POV Second Person, Pre-War, Pre-war Cybertron relevant warning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 07:01:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,361</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24516016</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyhexian/pseuds/Polyhexian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You are no stranger to suffering. Not yours, and certainly not anyone else's. As much as it's made a home in you, you've made a home in it in kind.</p><p>It starts when you lose everything.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>IDW1 Canon-compliant headcanons</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Across the line</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You are no stranger to suffering. Not yours, and certainly not anyone else's. As much as it's made a home in you, you've made a home in it in kind.</p><p>It starts when you lose everything. All you can do is stand and watch as a couple of heavies destroy your shop, your home, your stock, your tools- maybe your spark with it, if you're in a poetic mood, but poetry ain't too popular anymore. Poetry tends to get people killed these days, in fact. You've done your best to play things straight and arrow and stay under the radar. You were always on borrowed time, you knew that the day you left the Aerial Corps. No one changes jobs. You always knew one day things would end like this.</p><p>You'd just always hoped that vague "eventually" would stay eventually forever. But eventually is today and today you are watching everything you've ever cared about burn under cold blue stars, and it was not enough. It will never have been enough.  </p><p>You sleep on the street that night. And the next night. And the night after that.</p><p>The nights keep coming. The gutters start to blend together. The world comes in blacks and greys and pinks and on the fifth night you are so tank starved you are afraid you might actually die. No money, no job, and certainly not pity for another empty like you apparently are now. </p><p>The first time is easy. You spend all day thinking about it, obsessing over the details. You pick your target carefully- he's part of the intelligence class, alt mode-exempt. It means he will recover pretty easily. You don't have to feel bad. </p><p>You stalk him all day, as carefully as you can, for hours, until he's alone, only for a moment, taking a shortcut through an alley. He struggles and you're strong, but it's been awhile since you've done this and you're <em> hungry</em>. Still, you overpower him and you've seen siphoners with <em> gear </em> to make this easier but you've got nothing. You've got a guy on the ground unconscious and a bucket and you bleed him from his arm (won't be fatal, won't hurt too bad hopefully, easy to replace if you fuck it up) for as long as you dare and then you drag him back out into the alley so he will be found and you <em> bolt. </em></p><p>You shouldn't have gotten away clean with this one. You were messy, sloppy, and you should have been caught but you aren't. You fill your tanks that night and you've never had a refuel fill you with relief like that before and you never will again. This moment changes you, forever. </p><p>You try for a job again, but you can't go back to the Functionists now that you're out of the program and there's not a lot of legal options without them. The next time you're hungry enough to be desperate, there's no one as good a mark as your first one. </p><p>You take a jet. He's not as well off as the first guy, but he's got a decent alt mode. He probably has a good job. He's probably okay. </p><p>You bleed him as much as you can and leave him somewhere he will be found and you sleep that night on the street and hope he can pay to get repaired. </p><p>The third time is a problem. You don't just need fuel this time, you got in a fight the other day with some leaker who tried to siphon you while you were sleeping, and a punch to your gut broke a piston. It's hard to move with it like that but you <em> know </em> you can fix it, you just need a new one that isn't broken. </p><p>You try to find someone who looks well off and you take his and hope, really, really hope someone finds him in time. </p><p>By the time you've done this twenty times you have a pretty good system. Nobody ever gets hurt too badly and you're still alive. The twenty-first time, though, you fuck up. You're trying to drag your mark back out into an alley so they'll get found and that's when you get caught. Nobody calls the cops, they just beat you so badly you think they assumed you were dead when they left you, but you got lucky, apparently. </p><p>The next time you take someone, you don't take the risk of making sure they get found. </p><p>By the time you lose count, you're not worried about how well off they are. You only have so much time, so much energy, and you can't waste it. You take who you find. You take what you can get. You take what you hope they can spare.</p><p>You get into a lot of fights and usually you win, but one day when you lose you are dragged, blinking and bleary to meet with a guy named Kroma in a basement, dim and dark and he takes one look at you and he knows you're different. You aren't a rustbucket leaker like every other empty out here. You're ex-aerial corps. You're forged to fight. </p><p>You're bought and paid for and then you get fixed up, for real, by like, an actual doctor, and if that isn't amazing you don't know what is. You have a job now, he tells you. </p><p>You have a job now, apparently. </p><p>It's easy at first, just like siphoning was. It's one hundred shanix a head. He doesn't tell you what they want leakers for and you know better than to ask. You prowl the streets in your fixed up frame with your fuel tank full and you feel powerful, no longer one more frightened petrorabbit hiding in the grass but the hunter stalking its prey, untouchable, unkillable. </p><p>The first one you take you find beating some rusted monoformer behind a dive bar, drunken laughing as he kicks. You can see it in his optics: he deserves this. </p><p>The fight is a good one. It's been awhile since you got in a fight you were sure you could win but it <em> feels </em> good. You lick energon off your knuckles and throw him over your shoulder when you bring him back to Kroma for your hundred shanix. </p><p>You get wasted. Engex and boosters and a big meal, the first in a while. You can lie face down on the table and listen to the thrum of your spark pulse in your audials through your frame, tick-tick-tick like a clock, strong. You're alive. </p><p>The money runs out sooner than it should. </p><p>The next leaker you pick up is a booster addict curled up behind a dumpster. He doesn't even react when you pick him up. He's so fuel starved he doesn't even bleed. He won't survive the night. You take your money and leave.</p><p>You try to keep things simple. Folk who deserve it and folk who won't make it anyway. It weighs less on your spark that way. You have lost count how many times you've done this when Kroma tells you something new.</p><p>You bring in some booster from fourth district, a guy who was selling- you took his stock to try and make a buck off it yourself, since he won't be needing it anymore, and drop him on the table like you always do. Kroma has a datapad he's playing some kind of game on, barely paying attention to you, when he pauses it and looks up, a big grin on his face.</p><p>"I've got a really fun opportunity for you, Corps," (He knows your name, but he thinks it's a funnier pun than it is, since you were basically a walking corpse when you met him, but it's been a long time since then, and it's getting old) "You noticed lately that the burnouts tend to be bouncing back easier than usual?"</p><p>"I guess," you say, but you have, it's been harder to find people on the brink of fadeout, so you've been getting in more fights, "What about it?"</p><p>"My boss says he thinks someone's out here fixing the rabble, pro bono," he waves his data pad, leaning back in his seat, "I'm not telling everyone this, it's supposed to be hush hush, but you know you're one of my favourites, so I'm telling you. If you manage to find the guy patchin' up the empties, forget the hundo shanix a head deal- my boss is paying <em> ten grand </em> for this guy."</p><p>You can feel your spark pulse quicken it's pace at the number. That's enough you could drop a deposit on a <em> habblock. </em> That's a <em> lot </em>of money. </p><p>"Whatcha gonna do to him, eh?" you ask, before you can stop yourself. You're not supposed to care about stuff like that.</p><p>"Oh, come on, Corps, you know I can't say," Kroma snorts, before a sly smile spreads across his face, "Alright, alright- word is they want to make an example of him. Empurata, forged or not."</p><p>"Cool," you say, because what else can you say? He tosses you a credit chit with your hundred shanix on it for the booster. "See you around, Kroma."</p><p>"Don't forget I get a bonus if it's one of my guys who gets the mark," he calls after you, "So don't let me down, Corps!" </p><p>You spend the night using the boosters you took from that guy you picked up today. You'd meant to sell them, but you really need to take the edge off, suddenly. When your chronometer comes back online it's been two days and you're looking a little worse for wear, but people know not to fuck with you by now. You aren't like them. You fight back, and you win. You get left alone.</p><p>You spend most of the day stalking folk who look like burnouts, waiting to see if any of them go anywhere strange. You get bored pretty quickly, though, so you change tactics and grab anyone who looks like they've been patched up recently, but no matter what you threaten them with, no one is talking. They know what you are. They know who you work for. </p><p>You find a burnout bot on the brink of fadeout and liberate his fuel pump from him. It's not as bad as it sounds, really, he can live without it for a few days, at least. You figure he probably knows you're following him, but as time gets away from him he has to make the same decision you have: it's me or them, and no one ever chooses them. </p><p>On the second night he's desperate enough to make his call and you prowl like the predator you've already figured out you are through the back alleys as he meets with strangers who give him quiet instructions, move him through buildings, take roundabout ways and shortcuts, but you've lived here long enough. You aren't an enforcer from out of town that's easy to ditch if you know your way around. You're as empty as they are and it's just a matter of time before he goes in a building and doesn't come out again. </p><p>You wait until the next day when he runs off in a rush, looking much better, and you know you've got him.</p><p>It's a small building, one of the older designs, before the Functionists really started limiting architectural freedom for stuff like this. Probably used to be a little apartment block once upon a time, but now it's derelict, rusted out, very innocuous. Frankly, it's a little suspiciously worse for wear. The door lock is new, clean, a dead giveaway there's something worth seeing inside. Rookie shit. You don't even need to break it, because a shoulder check to the door breaks the handle itself, and it crumples inward. </p><p>You're not sure what you were expecting. Maybe some kind of hippie commune of scrappers who figured out how fix fuel pumps, but you weren't expecting a real proper Iaconian good boy, all white and red with an ambulance alt mode. What is this loser doing here, playing hero?</p><p>"I don't have any money-" he starts, palms up, "I'm a doctor-"</p><p>"I got optics, doc," you deadpan. Did he not expect someone to come for him? Idiot. "I ain't here for your money. I'm here for you."</p><p>"What for?" he's backing up, towards the counter- probably got a gun or something stashed, so at least he's not <em> that </em> stupid.</p><p>"Quit moving," you say, rolling your ammo deck to remind him you've got internal weapons, and he freezes, "You gotta know what I'm here for, man."</p><p>"Finally got noticed, eh?" he says, shoulders moving backward. Oh, good! He was only pretending to be stupid, that's an honest relief. You hate when they make you feel bad for them, "About time."</p><p>"Eh, you wasn't a priority," you shrug, "Now look at this setup you got here, doc! This is real nice. You got any idea how much stuff like this is worth around these parts?"</p><p>"I do. I paid for it myself."</p><p>You whistle. "They pay you well up in Iacon, eh? Don't give me that look, it's all over you, you're an AoSaT boy! Ain't nobody from here got such a pretty polish as you."</p><p>"My name is Ratchet," he says, palms still up, but the cheeky bastard keeps sliding backwards, slowly enough you think he doesn't think you notice, but it's kind of cute, so you let him, "I'm just trying to help people. You don't <em> have </em> to do this." </p><p>"Nah, I don't gotta do nothin'," you shrug, "But I <em> can</em>." You frown, "Ratchet, Ratchet, I feel like I heard that name before. Where do I know that from?" You glance away, only for a second, scrunching up your faceplate as the memories pull your optics to the side, and he grabs for the gun you totally knew was on the counter and throws himself at you. </p><p>Eh, he called your bluff on the internal weapons. You ain't been able to keep those loaded for awhile. Ammo is expensive stuff these days! You fire off nothing, laughing at the silly <em> kerchunk-kerchunk </em> sound the unloaded barrels make before the back of your helm slams into the side of the medical berth and you see stars on the way down.</p><p>When your optical field flickers back on the doctor is straddling your chest, both hands on his pistol, pressed against your forehead. His face says it all, screwed up in a hundred emotions he ain't never had before, precious medic hands shaking. </p><p>"What are you gonna do, shoot me?" you laugh in his face, "A <em> doctor's </em> gonna shoot me?"</p><p>"I will," he says, the barrel of the pistol twisting against your forehead, "I <em> work </em> for the Senate, just like you. I know <em> exactly </em> what they'll do to me. I won't go."</p><p>"Oh, that's where I know you from, then! Yeah, they're lookin' to cut off them shaky hands of yours," you snort, and he tightens his grip, but the shaking doesn't stop, "I heard what they say about medic hands. Seems a real waste." </p><p>"It would be," he hisses at you. His optics are jerky, his shoulders tight, frame wracked with tension.</p><p>"Ain't never killed anyone before, huh?" you ask. He narrows his optics at you, "It's cool, it's cool. Here's a tip for you then." You grab the barrel of his gun in one hand, fingers on top of his and move it from pointing at your forehead to over your left optic, "Aim for the eyes. Less resistance that way. More likely to hit the brainstem."</p><p>Ooh, you've shaken him. He's even trying to pull away! You grab his wrist with your other hand and hold his aim steady. "Better make it count, doc. You don't wanna leave guys like me alive. We got a tendency of coming back to haunt you." </p><p>"I-" he starts, his hands trembling beneath yours, and you can <em> feel </em> the tension in his metacarpal struts beneath the surface, fighting himself, "I can't."</p><p>His grip goes slack and he sags all at once. You roll your optics and shove him off your chest and onto the floor. You sit up while he crumples, probably waiting for the end.</p><p>"Gimme your gun," you snap, and he hands it to you. You check the ammo. Good stuff! You pop it back in and subspace it, looking around the room. </p><p>"This place sucks, you know," you say, side eyeing him, "I found it within three days of lookin'. If you wanna be out here doin' this slag you really gotta do a better job of it."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"This place is compromised, obviously," you go on, pushing yourself to your pedes and rifling through the stuff he has on the counter for anything you wanna take, "But I figure if you move down towards the docks, the basement tunnels down there are <em> labrythnian. </em> 'Specially if you get into the service network. Probably do you better."</p><p>"I- I don't understand," Ratchet says, sitting up and staring at you. You see a bottle of circuit dampeners and grab those like a giddy sparkling grabbing at rust sticks. </p><p>"I'm letting you run for it, dumbaft," you spell out, without turning to look at him. He's too slow on the uptake to survive out here. He's gonna get ganked by the next guy that runs into him for sure.</p><p>"Why?" </p><p>You shrug, and flip open one of the circuit dampeners to pop in the back of your neck. Immediately the dull throbbing from where you hit your helm fades and you sigh, along with all the little aches and pains from broken struts and cracked servos as they wind down into background noise. "Yeah, that's the good stuff."</p><p>"But <em> why</em>?"</p><p>"Don't be stupid," you snap, turning to lean on the counter, "You think you <em> need </em> to know somethin' like that? Take my charity and hit the bricks, before I change my mind." </p><p>He doesn't ask you a third time, and he's gone. You finish looting any drugs you can find stashed in the cabinets and kick the door out of the way when you leave.</p><p>Kroma finds you before you find him this time.</p><p>"Hey there, Corps," he says, and you look up from the oil fire you've got burning. You sniff, but don't otherwise acknowledge him. There's not much point. "Been hearing some real interesting rumours you've come into a stash of circuit dampeners lately." Man, you probably shouldn't have taken those.</p><p>"Got 'em from Brakeline down on eighth," you lie, knowing he knows it's a lie. You can at least go down with some dignity.</p><p>"Didn't know he was selling those these days," Kroma comments, hands on his hips, "I thought he was into Syk now."</p><p>"He plays the field."</p><p>"Oh yeah?" he asks, "What about you, then? Playing the field, are you?" </p><p>You eye him for a moment, quiet, his smile unfaltering, before you kick a barrel at him and yank the gun you took from the doctor out of your subspace. He's faster than you, though, and the first shot hits you in your shoulder and you drop the pistol before you ever even get to fire it. The second shot hits you in the chest, and that one was just petty. </p><p>You groan, laying on your back, blearily trying to focus your optics on anything other than the brand new warnings in your HUD (boy, you thought you'd seen all of them by now), and Kroma stands over you, big smile still on his face, hands on his hips, shaking his head. </p><p>"You know, Corps, I like you. I really do! I don't think our working relationship has gotta end over this. You know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking the boys already got all the goods ready for an empurata, it would be a real shame to waste 'em." Kroma puts a pede on your gut and pushes until you cough and wheeze and spit and grit your dentae, refusing to cry out, "Not even gonna beg, Whirl? You see, that's what I like about you so much. You love doing things the hard way." </p>
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